


The Freak In All Of Us

by The_Flaming_Homosapian



Category: American Horror Story
Genre: Gay Male Character, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-14 11:34:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16912131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Flaming_Homosapian/pseuds/The_Flaming_Homosapian
Summary: Keep in mind this is meant as a male reader, but anyone--no matter their gender--is able to read it. Chances are this is gonna end up with gay ships, so... yeah. Enjoy!





	The Freak In All Of Us

Ever since I was a young boy, I knew there was something different about me. I wasn't sure what, but I quickly learned it wasn't a good thing. People would look at me in question, trying to deduce me to what they thought I was, regardless of how I felt about it. 

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't figure out what made me so different from everyone else, why everyone seemed to look at me in equal bits curiosity and disgust. That is, until I hit puberty.

While most of the guys my age were starting to become muscular and their frames screamed "manly", while mine did the complete opposite. My hips jutted out in a seductive curve and my waste synched like I was wearing a corset. Rather than having strong, taut skin like the guys around me, mine was soft as silk. My lips were full and my eyelashes long.

I was bullied on a regular basis by the kids at my school because of this, being renamed the school's "hermaphrodite". My only saviour was the books I buried myself in. They were a solace when everything else was going so wrong. Each book held its own story, a home away from home. They taught me many things about myself; interests I never knew I had, talents I could've never guessed.

The constant reading strengthened my mind and gave me a photographic memory. It also gave me a strong imagination, though not strong enough to cover the bruises and cuts that littered my body—only most of them coming from others.

I tried going to my mother for help about it once, but that only made things worse. She lashed at me in a drunken fit, claiming that I was a mistake and that she should've killed me a long time ago. From that day on, I became her punching bag whenever she was drunk. Which happened to be more often than not.


End file.
